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100 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
Fresh mid the cares that cluster darkly there!
What poet harp could half their sweetness tell, Or breathe the emotions melting in a tear, With which the heart looks back through many a varied year;
Back to the time when, cradled on her breast,
The little heart forgot its lightsome care, And revel'd in a mother's fond caress,
And listened to a mother's voice in prayer.
0 happy hours, how sweet a light ye wear! Even at that name, fresh thoughts of earliest love
Crowd o'er the heart with images so fair, We turn from where our fond affections rove, To think of dewy hopes which first our garland wove.
Home—'tis the spot, tho' humble and obscure,
Where the warm heart has cent'red all its joys, Where life's sweet sunshine falls most calm and pure:
Home—'tis the spot where pleasure seldom cloys,
Whose sacred peace no stormy wind destroys, A place where love is made the hallowed tie,
Where social sweetness rules the heart and voice: From its fair portals cold distrust may fly, And a world's tinsel'd show pass all unheeded by. |
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